


it starts like this

by autumnwaltz



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, Fluff and Angst, self indulgent as hell, they just make my heart sing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27696947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnwaltz/pseuds/autumnwaltz
Summary: “Shut up,” Jon chuckles. “Although I agree… I certainly don’t want to breed anymore entitled silver-haired kids.”“Yeah, because you want them to be gingers,” Satin’s rejoinder earns him a pillow being thrown hard at his face. “Or brunettes. Either way, you want them to look like Starks,” he continues, ignoring Jon’s glare.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 34
Kudos: 230





	it starts like this

It starts like this —

“We absolutely have to go, Sansa! You have been cooped up in the library for far too long, the gods know you’re passing NEWTs with flying colors anyways, you really need to have some fun! Just for tonight, come on, please, please, please,” Jeyne wouldn’t, _couldn’t,_ shut up, resolutely poking Sansa’s shoulder to her dismay. Pycelle, the ancient librarian, shoots them dirty looks, and rings his bell a dozen times. That makes Jeyne pause for a while, and then she whispers, “If you don’t come with me to the Slytherin party tonight, I’m going to tell Harrdyng you fancy him.”

Sansa snaps her head, “What are you -- I don’t fancy him!” 

Jeyne rolls her eyes, “Sure you don’t,” she smirks. “I’m sure he’d love to hear all about it anyway.”

Pycelle rings the bell again. Sansa sighs and starts gathering her things. When they reach the door, she says, “You know how important NEWTs is, Jeyne, and you really should start revising too, we only have a few months left--”

“Yes, yes, I’ll worry about that later, but tonight we worry about what we should wear!” she titters. 

“I haven’t even agreed on going,”

“Oh, but you will! Because I’m not going to stop bothering you all night until you do, and you know how persuasive I could get,” Jeyne says. 

Sansa rolls her eyes. Her friend did have a point, however. She really did deserve a break. Her wrist was just starting to ache, and it wouldn’t hurt to relax just for one night, would it? What could possibly go wrong?

—

“I’m surprised to see you here,” the voice comes from her back. She turns, “Prince Jaehaerys.” Once, she might have acted like a little fool around a prince, but she’s not that girl, not anymore. Not since Joffrey. 

“Lady Sansa,” he takes a sip from his firewhiskey. “Would you like a drink?” He holds out the bottle. His eyebrows rise when she takes it, her fingers slightly brushing over his. She looks out at the crowded common room, where some people are dancing on table tops, and some are grinding at each other without shame on the dance floor. Jeyne remains nowhere to be seen. 

“I would have expected you to be with your noisy friend,” he says. She dimly registers his faint northern accent, probably from all the summers he spends with his old uncle Aemon. “She abandoned me ten minutes after we came here,” she takes a swig of the bottle, and then coughs.

He laughs, patting her back lightly. “You shouldn’t have drank so much in one go,” 

She’s never heard him laugh, it was just so out of character of his brooding personality. The candlelight shines on his glossy black curls, and she wonders how soft a prince’s hair could be. “Well, you could have warned me, your grace,”

“Jon,” he says. “Call me Jon,” he takes the bottle out of her hand and drinks from it. Her lips have just been there, she thinks. 

“Alright… Jon,” she says, taking another swig. Taking it slow. The alcohol burns with fury, and she’s never felt more alive. He eyes her throat as she swallows. “What can I do for you, Jon?” 

“Nothing, I just came up here to bring the lady company. You looked bored,” he replies. 

He’s so pretty. Too pretty. She giggles. Giggles? She must stop this, now. “Well I am certainly not bored now,” she says, eyes glinting. 

“Glad to hear it, my lady,” 

“Perhaps we could do a drinking game,” she says. She sees him quirking an eyebrow and adds, “What, too princely for that?”

He chuckles, low in his throat. “You’d be surprised to find, Lady Sansa, that I am hardly princely,”

“Well, I beg to differ. You’re quite polite, my lord, offering fair maidens a drink, saving them from utter loneliness,” she says. 

“I didn’t come here to be polite,” when did he come closer? There’s barely a foot between them now. “I came here because I think you’re beautiful, and it’s a shame you were standing all alone,” he whispers. 

She inhales sharply, and the smell of leather and smoke clouds her senses. This is a terrible idea. “Perhaps I should go, I still have essays to do,” she nods her head instead of curtsying, and turns her back to him in search of Jeyne. A calloused, warm hand catches her wrist, “Tomorrow is a Saturday, Lady Sansa.” He leans in, and she could feel the hot puff of air from his mouth, “What if we both leave?” 

She breathes in. Breaths out. What on Earth is she doing? Robb would kill her if he knew… But Robb isn’t here, is he? And no one has to know… 

“Sansa?” Her eyes catch his, dark and stormy. A Targaryen prince and a daughter of Winterfell… this is just a train wreck waiting to happen. The thought gives her a thrill.

She nods. “Where will we go?”

He smiles at that. 

____

Royalty, apparently, gets extra special treatment in Hogwarts. Jon has his own apartments in the Slytherin dorms, that’s almost as big as the common room. It is, without surprise, ridiculously opulent, the Targaryen colors gleaming at every corner. “Of course you have your own apartments,” she mutters. 

He raises his eyebrows, a hand on her back guiding her to the settee by the fireplace. “Well, I am a prince of the realm, after all,” he proclaims haughtily. She takes a seat, reveling in the soft cushions beneath her. She feels like she had been standing at that party for hours. 

“Would you like some tea?” He asks.

She likes the feeling of buzz from the firewhiskey. It makes her feel unstoppable. “It’s all right,” she says. “I don’t want tea right now.” 

He takes a seat next to her. She feels incredibly warm. She’s not sure if it’s from the fireplace, the alcohol, or him. 

“Nice place,” she begins.

“Ah, yes… My sister Rhaenys had a hand in it. She’s got fine taste,” he says, playing with a lock of red hair. 

“How is your sister?” She asks, shifting in her seat, crossing her legs. Her skirt rides up her thigh and his eyes follow the patch of exposed skin. 

“I’m sure she’s all right, travelling the world and all that, but I don’t want to talk about her right now,” 

“Then what would you like to talk about, your grace?” she breathes. She didn’t change out of her school uniform, and her necktie feels like it’s constricting her throat. 

His hand reaches out, his thumb slowly wiping a drop of wine from the corner of her mouth. “A lot of things... actually. But perhaps we could skip all that,” he offers. 

She takes a last swig from the firewhiskey, and places it on the side table, its thump echoing in the otherwise silent room. “Perhaps.” 

She’s not sure who leaned in first. 

—-

She wakes up to pure, hard muscle. A chest against her back, an arm around her waist, his other hand cupping her breast, and an erection flush against her buttocks. She wiggles, trying to get out of his hold, but he grips her only harder. “Jon!” she hisses. “Jon!” 

“Go back to sleep,” he mutters, eyes still closed. She squirmed harder, rubbing her ass against his cock back and forth. She’d be damned if this doesn’t rouse him from sleep. 

He nuzzles her neck, pressing lazy kisses down her throat. “What are you doing, my lady?” 

“I need to go back to my dorms! I can’t walk around looking like I’ve been thoroughly shagged within an inch of my life!” 

She can feel him smirk at that. In a blink of an eye, he’s maneuvered them that she’s now lying on her back, and him above her, his hand capturing both her wrists above her head. “I have a private bath in here, and my personal elf could fetch your clothes,” he says. 

She quiets at that, and tries so hard not to moan when he nicks that elusive spot between her neck and shoulder she’s absolutely weak for. “Oh, well then...” she says hoarsely. 

“Well then,” he repeats, rather wickedly, and captures her mouth with his own. 

—

Sansa Stark has always been a good girl. Prim and proper, with the perfect grades and the perfect upbringing. She’s always followed the rules, because it was expected of her. One of the unspoken rules was that she shouldn’t fraternize with the Targaryens, for all the crap they had done to her family. But here she is, throwing all those rules away, because fucking Jon Targaryen gave her a rush that nothing else could. He made her feel alive, made her body sing, and damn her to hell but she’s become addicted. Sansa blames his grey eyes and its perpetual state of frown, and his deep rare laughters, and his fucking _intoxicating_ smell. And most of all she blames herself for falling for all of it anyway.

—

Before they go home for the Christmas holidays, he pulls her into a broom cupboard. She bites the palm covering her mouth and he yelps, “Oww! Such violence, Lady Sansa.”

“Serves you right, you git. You should stop doing that!” 

He rolls his eyes. “You like it when I pull you into tiny dark cupboards, stop pretending,”

“Shut up, Jon.”

He snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her closer, “Well, you do, don’t you?” He trails hot kisses down her neck. “Because I do.”

She sighs.

“Jon…” 

He lifts her and she automatically wraps her legs around his hips, leaning her head against the wall. They kiss for a while, losing herself within the feeling of his lips caressing hers, sometimes wildly, roughly, and other times, softly, as if a gentle caress. He moves his hand under her shirt, cupping her breasts, pinching her nipples. She moans at that rather embarrassingly. They break away only to catch their breath, leaning their foreheads against each other, Tully blue eyes against the Stark grey. 

“I’m giving you your Christmas present early, in fear that I won’t have the time to send a raven during the holidays,” he says. 

She is taken aback, but she doesn’t show it. 

“I… Jon, you didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupts, “but I wanted to.” He brings her legs down to the floor, and reaches a tiny rectangular box from his robe. 

“Here,” he shoves it towards her, rather awkwardly, and she thinks she’d never seen him look that cute. She takes it from his hand, running a thumb over the feel of the silk covering. 

“Well?” 

She looks up at him, “Well what?” 

“Well open it,” tapping his foot impatiently. She smiles at that. She opens the red lid and sees a golden dragonfly locket, taking it out of the box and admiring it in the dark lighting. “Oh Jon… it’s beautiful,” she kisses his cheek. “Thank you, my own prince of dragonflies.” 

His face reds at that, and clears his throat. “I remember you saying you liked the story of Jenny of Oldstones.” That was months ago, they were sitting in secret area of the library. No one else was around but it didn’t hurt to take precautions. 

She only kisses his other cheek. “This is very sweet of you, you know.”

“Turn around, let me put it on you,” he says. She turns, lifting her long hair away. He clasps the locket around her neck, pecks the small expanse of skin. “There,” he says, looking remarkably satisfied. 

“What are your plans for the holidays?” He continues. 

“Well, I assume Robb is coming home to Winterfell, and Uncle Benjen too. It would be quite noisy with my siblings running around and wreaking havoc.” She smiles at the thought. She missed home. “You could visit, you know. They’re your family too,” she says.

He stiffens, “I don’t think a Targaryen prince, bastard or not, would be welcome there,” he replies. 

“You’re half a Stark, of course you’re welcome there. No matter your last name is, the Stark blood runs through your veins, Jon.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,”

She sighs. “Jon…” He distracts her by stealing another kiss, and her fingers find themselves burrowed among his curls. She responds heartily, because she can’t help it, his kisses always makes her feel as if she’s floating. When they break apart, she pants into his neck. “Then I suppose I should give you your present now too.”

He perks at that. “You didn’t—” 

“I know,” she rolls her eyes, “but I wanted to,” she says cheekily. She flicks her wand and summons his present. It’s a wolfskin cloak, dark grey and impossibly soft. His breath hitches at the sight. “I made it just like my father’s,” she says. “I want you to have a piece of Winterfell.”

He’s speechless. “Sansa…” 

She raises her eyebrows, feeling pleased with herself, and he pulls her into an embrace. He kisses her forehead and whispers, “thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.”

——

Jon lounges alone by the fireplace, helplessly staring by the window for any sign of an incoming raven when Rhaenys and Aegon barge into his room. He rolls his eyes and sighs rather dramatically. “Can I not even have a single moment of peace in this castle?” 

“No, dear brother,” Aegon jumps into the space next to him, stealing the glass in his hand. “Mmm, arbor gold. Something bothering you, Jaehaerys?” 

“Stop it,” Jon swats a hand against the crown prince. “You know I hate it when you call me that,” he says impetuously. 

“We just wanted to see how our little brother was doing,” Rhaenys begins, pouring a glass of wine for herself. She reclines against the couch next to them, utterly relaxed. “We haven’t had the time to properly talk since we went home. You know, bond and all that.”

“I’m fine,” Jon mutters sulkily. Going back to staring at the open window. 

“It seems to me like you’re not,” Rhaenys says, arching an eyebrow. “Jaehaerys, are you waiting for a raven?” Aegon laughs at that. “Awwww, how sweet. Our littlest brother, hopelessly in love!”

“Shut up,” Jon says. “And I’m not waiting for anything,” he adds. “I’m just admiring the view.”

“Right,” says Aegon doubtfully. “You should be careful, Jon. You know father wants you to marry Daenerys. Save the impeccable bloodline, and etcetera etcetera.” His stomach churns at the thought. Daenerys is beautiful, to be sure. But she’s too… she’s too Dany. She’s goes to Beauxbatons, and hasn’t stopped following him around ever since she went back to Dragonstone for the holidays. Avoiding her every second she pops up has been tiring, but he’d rather do that than deal with her.

Jon hums depressingly. “Nothing has been set in stone, though.” 

The conversation goes back to one of Aegon’s diplomatic visits to Dorne and Jon tunes them out, eyeing the window once more. 

——

Jon Targaryen grew up getting what he wanted. Despite being a legitimized bastard, people still treated him nicely, notwithstanding the fact that he has always been Rhaegar’s favorite. His upbringing within the royal family has taught him the importance of keeping all of his emotions in, as it wouldn’t do for any of them to be vulnerable in front of outsiders. He has trained himself to keep his blank exterior, no matter who his company was. And he has miserably failed at that around Sansa Stark.

It starts like this —

He sees her standing alone in the middle of a robust party, red hair glinting against the firelight, arms crossed and looking utterly bored. He sees a chance and bravely takes it. They have barely interacted before, being in different circles. Her with her siblings and her posse of friends. And him and his gaggle of sycophants. And then he kissed her, and she tasted of lemon cakes, and he couldn’t stay away ever since. 

Before her, his existence was bleak and everyday was the same. But then she came into his life, and his senses were lit until it could perceive nothing but the sparkling mixture of everything that’s her— her long red silky locks, yellow lemon cakes, blue Tully eyes, her green satin underwear he kept at the bottom of his drawer. And he misses her. He loathes to admit it, but he desperately aches for her, and she wont even deign him a single glance. And he doesn’t even know _why_.

“Your grace, if it wouldn’t be too much to ask for you to actually pay attention to class instead of staring at Lady Stark’s back,” Ser Alliser Thorne, the DADA professor’s voice rings through the room. 

He pulls himself out of his musings and slowly leans back on his chair. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to offend the honorable Alliser Thorne,” Jon drawls in response. There’s a few snickers from his classmates, and he checks if Sansa reacted. Nothing. And he’s just simply perplexed, because they were doing so good, things were going so well. Not a month ago they were exchanging secret smiles, and now there’s not even a glance, or an eye roll, or a hair flip and he misses the taste of lemon cakes and he’s been starving for weeks. 

When the class ends, he stays back by the corridor to wait for her exit. He catches her wrist, not caring if anybody sees, and she just shook it off, and bounded off to her next class — like the ice queen she is. And he pretends it doesn’t matter.

——

Perhaps it started like this —

They were at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where the red leaves reminded Sansa of the Godswood in Winterfell. Everyone else was watching the quidditch match, and so no one was around to see them sitting against an old oak tree, with her between his thighs, reading an old book about the Targaryen conquest, of all things, but it was his favorite kind of tales as a child, and she liked it well enough. He’s got an arm around her waist, and her head against his chest. She asks if he’s done reading the page and he nods, placing his head on her shoulder as she flips the page over. She smelled like lemon cakes, of old parchment, and of spring. She smelled as sweet as she tasted. Jon didn’t like many things, but he liked this moment. 

——

“I thought I’d find you here,” he says. 

“Go away, Jon.” She has a hand against an old tree, her eyes closed. “I don’t want to hear anything from you,” her voice was hard and composure cold. A northern daughter, to be sure. 

“I don’t even know what I’ve done wrong—”

She snorts. “Right,”

“Sansa… please. Tell me,” if she wants him on his knees, he would do it, without a second thought.

Silence. She wouldn’t even look at him. Five minutes passed by. Ten minutes. He's still standing there helplessly like an utter idiot, waiting and waiting and waiting.

“If you really want to know, your grace, why don’t you ask Daenerys?”

“Dany— what?” He asks, utterly baffled. 

“Jeyne told me, how apparently she’s telling everyone what an absolute marvel you were during the holidays, how you’re going to get married after Hogwarts,” she replies. “Well, have a nice life, your grace.”

“Sansa, wait—”

She’s already walked away. 

——

At night he lays in bed, staring at the canopy. He hears a knock on his door, and yells, “Go away!” It opens anyway, and Satin casually comes in, drinks in both hands. Knowing him, he’s probably charmed it to be endless. 

“I don’t want to be disturbed, Satin,”

“Well, your royal highness should just forgive me, but I am done with your moping. Gods, you’re even worse than before, and it’s been weeks now, and I am sick of it!” Satin complains. “What you need, Jon, is a drink.”

Jon takes a glass and gulps it straight away. It refills itself instantly. “It tastes like shit,” 

“It’s the only one I could smuggle,” Satin says. “Now, talk.”

“I have nothing to talk about,” Jon replies, morosely wiping off the beads of cold from his glass. “Bullshit, your grace. I know what’s going on with you and the Stark girl,” Satin says.

Jon looks up in shock, “how did you—”

“You weren’t exactly the most discreet, Jon, and who accompanied you during your jewelry shopping trip? Your sister didn’t get the locket, and I didn’t see Daenerys flaunting it either, but a certain red haired Ravenclaw walks around with a dragonfly on her neck, so you can’t get out of this one. Just tell me,” he says. 

“She thinks I’m with Dany, or whatever rumors her friend told her,” Jon sighs. 

“So?”

“So what?” Jon takes another swig.

“So tell her you’re not with your aunt… god your family is weird. All that inbreeding…” Satin shudders. 

“Shut up,” Jon chuckles. “Although I agree… I certainly don’t want to breed anymore entitled silver haired kids.” 

“Yeah, because you want them to be gingers,” Satin’s rejoinder earns him a pillow being thrown hard at his face. “Or brunettes. Either way, you want them to look like Starks,” he continues, ignoring Jon’s glare.

“Can we not talk about children right now,”

“What? You brought it up,” Satin holds both his hands up in mock surrender. They fell into a silence. 

“It’s not that simple,” Jon begins after a while, and then sighs. 

“What is?”

“Well, first off, her family hates mine,”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a Targaryen prince takes a Stark maiden,” Satin says. “At this point it would be a tradition,” he chuckles.

“Hardly a maiden,” Jon mutters.

“Oh now this I would like to hear about,”

“Fuck off, Satin.”

——

He finds her in the library, books sprawled around her table. Beside her is Jeyne, who’s looked up and is now staring at him in amazement. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, and says, “Lady Sansa, if I could speak with you for a moment.” Everyone in the vicinity turns to look at them in curiosity. Sansa, the poster girl of courtesy, agrees. 

He leads her to the old charms classroom where they would sometimes meet. He hasn’t even closed the door when she whirls angrily. “What are you doing? In front of everybody? Have you lost your mind?”

“You haven’t given me the chance to explain,” Jon starts. 

“Nothing to explain,” she says. 

“You have no right to be jealous,” he says.

“I know.” Her hands ball into fists.

“You said, plenty of times, that this was just for fun, nothing more. That no one could know.”

“I know.”

“Then why ignore me?”

“Why even bother?” She interrupts.

“What?” He asks.

“Why have you been following me around like a puppy for weeks now?”

Well. Because she smells like lemon cakes, of old parchment, and of spring. Because she tastes as sweet as she smelled. And he likes being consumed by her presence, and her little smiles, and her light blue eyes. Because he likes her wit, and her compassion for others. Jon barely liked even himself, but he likes the person he is around her. Because he misses her, and desperately aches for her, and he hates himself for it, for being so needy and pathetic and he couldn’t give a shit anymore. He just wants this suffering to end. But he couldn’t just say all that, could he? 

“Because I miss you,” he settles with that instead. She scoffs. “And I want you to have the right to be jealous.”

“I—what?”

“Sansa, please know that there’s nothing going on with me and Dany. She’s my aunt, for gods sake.”

“An aunt who’s the same age as you, an aunt who your father wants you to marry,” she says derisively.

“My father can’t make me marry her, not if I don’t want to,”

“Your father is the _king,_ ” 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he holds out a hand, hoping he doesn’t look as desperate as he feels at this moment. “Let’s make it official.” 

“What do you mean—”

“I mean let’s make it public. So everyone would know. I don’t want this to be a secret anymore. I’ve seen how Harrdying and many other losers look at you. I don’t want them looking at you, I want them to know you’re mine, and no one else’s.”

She steps closer and takes his hand. “And you— you’re mine?”

“Has always been. The moment you first smiled at me. I was wrecked.” It feels like a heavy burden has been lifted off his shoulders. She grins at him widely. His heart soars. She kisses him this time, slowly, furtively, grazing his lips with hers, and by the gods, he’s missed this so much. 

“So what do you say?” he asks. Nervously. He’s got his arms around her waist. At least she won’t see his hand shaking.

“All right,” she says. 

——

He waits for her outside the great hall, and his face breaks into a smile when he sees her. He’s instantly on her side, kissing her cheek, taking her hand in his. Her fingers entwine with his and her thumb rubs against the side of his hand. 

“Well, may I escort you inside, Lady Sansa?” 

Actually, it starts like this —

They both walk into the great hall, hand in hand, and the entire room goes into silence, staring at the pair with shock. They resolutely ignore them, and Jon guides Sansa into his bench, asking if she wants tea. She says yes, thank you, and nibbles on a scone. The room continues to gawk at them for a few more minutes, their eyes on Jon’s arm around her waist. “They want a show,” she whispers. He chuckles, “well, let’s give them one, shall we?” And leans down to take her lips with his own. 

**Author's Note:**

> this work is inspired by honey or tar by josephinee, if you like scorpius/rose, i highly recommend it! <3


End file.
